


Animus

by hamlet



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamlet/pseuds/hamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris hears no more. In an instant, he swipes his access card and unlocks the door, and moments later, his fist forcefully connects with Wesker’s cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended as a fill for [this prompt](http://re-kink-meme.livejournal.com/514.html?thread=216834#t216834), but this ended up deviating from the request, so I didn't post it up there.

Chris doesn’t mean to walk past Wesker’s cell in BSAA’s high-security facility. He really doesn’t; does not want to, but he goes anyway, just to make sure the other man is safely locked away for good. Too much effort, pain, and too many resources were spent capturing this son of a bitch, and Chris, knowing Wesker’s resourcefulness, refuses to take any chances.

Chris finds the holding cell and peeks inside through the tiny window. Wesker is sitting on the floor in semi-darkness of the ridiculously small room, hands and feet cuffed. His head is down, but as soon as hears movement outside, he looks up and sneers.

“Ah, Chris. Long time no see. Did you miss me?” Wesker’s voice is his usual smooth baritone, and he’s calm and arrogant, as if he’s not a prisoner, chained up like a dog, condemned for life.

Chris grinds his teeth and tries to stay calm. “Shut it, Wesker. I’m done with you and your worthless existence.”

“Now, now, Chris,” Wesker continues, eyes flashing in the dark. “You know that’s not true. You haven’t changed ever since I met you. No matter what I do, or where I go, or how far I run, you always follow me like the weak-minded fool that you are.”

Chris feels anger boiling inside of him, so he steels himself and mentally counts to ten. He’s not going to give Wesker the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him.

“Do you honestly think you’ve won?” Wesker continues. “Just because you managed to capture me? There are more underground research facilities than the pathetic so-called intelligence of the BSAA is aware of, more people working on the Ouroboros project than you can imagine. You may have stalled our progress for now, but worry not, Chris. Ouroboros will still spread across the globe, wiping out all the pitiful weaklings such as yourself and your little friend, Jill. Fools like you were meant to be pawns in the hands of Gods.”

Chris hears no more. In an instant, he swipes his access card and unlocks the door, and moments later, his fist forcefully connects with Wesker’s cheek. The force of the unexpected blow slams Wesker into the wall behind him, and blood trickles down his chin from the split lip. Wesker smirks crookedly. “You’re going to settle this with violence? How pathetic.”

Chris stands in the middle of the cell, his body and mind on high alert. Wesker always brought out the worst in him, but this time, alone with him in the dark, tiny room and Wesker completely at his mercy, Chris sees nothing but the glowing, red eyes and they make his blood boil.

It’s as if he’s in a red fog. Chris feels himself move forward, but there is no rational thought behind the action. He’s fueled by pure rage, suddenly taking out all of his anger on the bastard that’s been ruining his life for years. The loud crack of Wesker’s ribs rings in his ears, and drives Chris on. Wesker’s not untouchable. He heals, but he can be hurt, deserves to be hurt. It will never be the same: his pain will never compare to the torment that the victims of his experiments went through before meeting their horrid deaths (if they were lucky enough to die!), but the bastard deserves to feel at least a fraction of it.

Chris’ blows fly out to every portion of Wesker’s body that he can reach. His fists slams into Wesker’s other cheek, his temple, the underside of his jaw, then in the ribcage (there goes another rib cracking), then straight into Wesker’s solar plexus, twice, fast and hard, knocking the wind out of Wesker. Panting, the blond slumps to his knees, trying to catch his breath, but that goddamn smirk is still on his face.

Chris snarls and shoves Wesker over, so that the other man is lying on the floor, on his side. He nudges Wesker with his boot until Wesker’s on his back, cuffed arms pinned painfully underneath him, putting uncomfortable pressure on the joints of his shoulder. Chris stares down at Wesker for a moment, then kicks out at him with his boot, aiming for his abdomen and groin.

Wesker grinds his teeth and tries to curl in on himself. He hurts. Sure, he heals, but his regenerative capacity cannot compete with the speed and ferocity of Chris’ attacks, and with his hands and feet bound, he can neither retaliate nor throw Chris off. His midsection throbs in pain, and he’s pretty sure one of his cracked ribs punctured a lung because there’s an odd, metallic taste in his mouth, and he cannot seem to catch his breath.

Then Chris roughly grabs him by the front of his shirt, and slams him into the wall. The back of Wesker’s head collides with the hard surface, and his vision blacks out for a moment. The room spins when he opens his eyes back up, and he feels lightheaded and nauseous. Chris’ angry, unforgiving eyes are trained on him, then large, strong fingers coil themselves around Wesker’s throat, and squeeze.

Wesker cannot breathe. His mouth opens and closes, he tries to inhale but he can’t get air. His lungs are burning, deprived of precious oxygen, and his vision swims. Suddenly, abruptly, Chris lets him go and takes a step back. Wesker sinks down onto the floor in a coughing fit, gasping, trying to right his breathing.

Chris stares him down. “What now, Wesker? Not so high and mighty anymore, are you?”

Wesker wants to snap back, but can’t find the strength in him. He hasn’t cracked, hasn’t given Chris the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him, and he’s not about to. Then he’s being grabbed and hauled up again, and suddenly Chris’ mouth is on his, tongue pushing inside, past Wesker’s cracked and bloody lips.

Chris kisses him deliberately slow, gentle and deep, as if the sensations so foreign to Wesker would do more damage than violence. Wesker’s brain, having suffered from what definitely had to be a massive concussion and oxygen deprivation, refuses to correctly process information. Pleasure feels like pain, and pain feels like pleasure. The room is suddenly freezing cold, Chris’ body the only source of warmth and it’s hot and inviting, so Wesker leans into it, like a moth attracted to a flame. His entire being shakes with the mangled sensations and he twists his body to reach out to the source pleasure, jostling his injured shoulder. It hurts so much, but it feels so good at the same time. Wesker shudders and incoherently sobs into Chris’ mouth.

The harsh sound startles Chris out of his haze. He pulls back and the angry, red fog vanishes, clearing from his vision. Wesker swoons toward him, tears rolling out of the unseeing eyes, and mixing with the blood on his face. There’s blood everywhere, pooling all over the floor, covering Wesker’s clothes, and splattered across Chris’ shirt and pants. Wesker coughs roughly against Chris’ chest, where his head is resting, and more blood trickles out his mouth, staining Chris’ shirt a dark red.

Chris takes it all in.

“Oh god. Oh, oh fuck. What the _fuck!_ ”

Instinct kicks in, and against better judgment, Chris removes the cuffs from Wesker’s hands, letting his arms fall into a more natural state, easing the tension in his shoulders. He pulls Wesker closer to himself, shifting him into a more comfortable position, and watches the blonde. Wesker regenerates and heals, but does he have a limit? Did Chris push him past it? What if Wesker fucking dies? How is Chris supposed to explain to his superiors that he killed their Top Secret, highly classified project?

Chris sits there for the longest time, watching the other man until he notices Wesker’s wounds slowly ceasing to ooze blood, and pulling themselves closed, his breathing becoming easier. Chris releases the breath he’s not aware of holding, and feels a huge weight lift off his shoulders. Wesker’s not going to die that easily. He’s going to heal and be a pain in Chris’ ass all over again, indefinitely.

Deciding that Wesker is in the clear, Chris picks him up and deposits his limp body on the prison cot, cuffing one of his hands to a metal ring tightly screwed into the wall, then exits the cell and resets the lock.

He’s going to go and burn all his fucking clothes.


End file.
